The First Councel

CHAPTER 9

Sitting in the waiting room outside Simon’s office, my only distraction is Judy’s typing. Simon’s personal assistant, Judy Stohr, is a chubby little woman with dyed red hair. Divorced the year Hartson decided to run for President, she gave up on men, moved from New Jersey to Hartson’s home state of Florida, and joined the campaign. A walking encyclopedia for every day that’s passed since then, Judy loves her new life. But as the always attentive mother of two college-age kids, she’ll never be able to change who she is.

“What’s wrong? You look sick.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“Don’t tell me ‘fine.’ You’re not fine.”

“Judy, I promise you, there’s nothing wrong.” As she stares me down, I add, “I’m sad about Caroline.”

“Ucch, it’s terrible. On my worst enemy, I wouldn’t wish such-”

“Does he have anyone in there?” I interrupt, pointing to Simon’s closed door.

“No, he’s just been making calls. He’s the one who told the President. And Caroline’s family. Now he’s talking to the major papers… ”

“Why?” I ask nervously.

“His office; his territory. He’s the point man on this. Press wants reaction from her boss.”

That makes sense. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Any other news?”

Judy leans back in her chair, enjoying her moment as the most informed. “It’s a heart attack. FBI’s still going through the office, but they know what’s going on-Caroline smoked more than my Aunt Sally and drank six cups of coffee a day. No offense, but what’d she expect?”

I shrug, unsure of how to respond.

In my silence, Judy sees something in my eyes. “You want to tell me what’s really upsetting you, Michael?”

“It’s nothing. Everything’s fine.”

“You’re not still intimidated by these guys, are you? You shouldn’t be-you’re better than ’ em all. That ’s truth talking to you: You’re a real person. That’s why people like you.”

During my third week on the job, I mistakenly sent a letter to the head of the House Judiciary Committee that began “Dear Congressman” as opposed to “Dear Mr. Chairman.” This being egoville, the Chairman’s staff left a snide remark about it on Simon’s voice-mail, and after a quick lashing by Simon, I made the mistake of telling Judy how intimidating it was being a state school boy in the White House’s Ivy League world. Since then, I’ve realized I could hold my own. For me, it’s no longer an issue. For Judy, it’s always my problem.

“The more you succeed, the more they get scared,” she explains. “You’re a threat to the old boy network-rock-solid proof that it doesn’t matter where you went to school or who your parents-”

“I get the point,” I say with a snap.

Judy gives me a second to cool down. “You’re still not over it, are you?”

“I promise you, I’m fine. I just need to speak to Simon.”

Before last night, Edgar Simon was a great guy. Born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, he had less swagger than the East Coast power brokers and Beltway insiders who’d previously held the White House Counsel position. As a double-Harvard graduate, he wasn’t lacking in gray matter. But I never focus on résumés. What impressed me most about Simon was his personal life.

A few months after I was hired, the press began to suspect that President Hartson was hiding the fact that he had prostate cancer. When the New York Times suggested that Hartson had a legal responsibility to share his medical records with the public, Simon stepped into his first major crisis. Forty-eight hours later, he found out that his twelve-year-old son was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, a genetic disorder of the nervous system that’s potentially disabling for children.

After a three-day, no-sleep, rip-your-hair-out research marathon dedicated to the legal issues surrounding presidential medical privacy, Simon handed two things to the President: a briefing book on the crisis and his own resignation. Simon made it clear-his son came first.

Needless to say, the press ate it like popcorn. Parenting magazine crowned him Father of the Year. Then, one month later, when the initial crisis had passed, Simon returned to his position as Counsel. He said the President twisted his arm. Others said Simon couldn’t stand being away from power. Either way, it didn’t matter. At the height of his career, Edgar Simon walked away from it all. For his son. I’d always respect him for that.

Stepping into his office, I try to picture the Edgar Simon I used to know-the Father of the Year. All I see, though, is the man from last night-the viper with the forty-thousand-dollar secret.

Sitting at his desk, he looks up at me with the same mischievous smile he gave me this morning. But unlike our earlier encounter, I now know that he saw us last night. And I know what he told Caroline-whatever their disagreements were, he put the finger on me. Still, there’s not a hint of anger on his face. In fact, the way his dark eyebrows are raised, he actually looks concerned.

“How’re you doing?” he asks as I sit down in front of his desk.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry you had to find her like that.”

I stare at the floor. “Me too.”

There’s a long pause in the air-one of those forced pauses where you know bad news is standing on your nose, waiting to springboard into your chest. Eventually, I lift my head.

Simon says it as soon as our eyes meet. “Michael, I think it’d be best if you went home.”

“What?”

“Don’t get upset-it’s for your own protection.”

I can barely contain myself; I’m not letting him pin this on me. “You’re sending me home? How’s that for my protection?”

Simon doesn’t like being challenged. His tone is slow and deliberate. “People heard you yell at her. Then you found the body. The last thing we-”

“What are you saying?” I ask, jumping out of my seat.

“Michael, listen to me. The campaign guys are breathing fire all over us-this a dangerous game. If you put forth the wrong impression, you’ll raise every voting eyebrow in the country.”

“But I didn’t-”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply suggesting that you go home and take a breath. You’ve been through a great deal this morning, and you can use the time off.”

“I don’t need the-”

“It’s not up for discussion. Go home.”

Biting my lower lip, I return to my seat, unsure of what to say. If I bring up last night, he’ll bury me with it-handing me to the press with a bird-in-his-teeth grin. Better to stay quiet and see where he goes. A little détente goes a long way; especially if it keeps me by his side. And behind his back.

Still, I can’t help myself. There’re too many unknowns. What if I have it backwards? Maybe it’s about more than last night. Simon doesn’t seem suspicious or accusatory, but that doesn’t make me feel any less defensive. “Do you even know why Caroline and I were fighting?” I blurt, struggling to keep things honest. Before he can respond, I add, “She thought my dad’s criminal record conflicted with my work on the Medicaid-”

“Now’s not the time, Michael.”

“But don’t you think the FBI-”

Simon doesn’t give me a chance to finish. “Do you know why this office is paneled?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“The office,” he says, pointing to the walnut paneling that covers the surrounding four walls. “Do you have any idea why it’s paneled?”

I shake my head, confused.

“Back in the Nixon administration, this office used to belong to Budget Director Roy Ash. The office down the hallway belonged to John Erlichman. Both were great corner offices. The only difference was, Erlichman’s office was paneled and this one wasn’t. This being the White House, Ash felt that that must’ve meant something. He thought everyone was watching and judging. So, being the wealthy sort he was, Ash used his own money and paneled this office. Now they were equals.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The point is, Michael, don’t spend your time defending yourself. Ash had it right. Everyone is watching. And right now, all they see is a woman who had a heart attack. If you start apologizing, they’re going to start thinking otherwise.”

I sit up straight in my seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all,” he says cheerfully. “I’m just looking out for you. That scab on your forehead’ll be gone by tomorrow. Take it from me-you don’t need another one.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

“No one says you did. It was a heart attack. We both know that.” He presses his pointer fingers against each other and brings them to his lips. With a silent grin, he sends home the threat. Go home and keep quiet, or stay here and pay the price. “By the way, Michael, don’t pick any more fights with the Secret Service. I don’t want to hear from them again.”

Over Simon’s shoulder, my eyes wander to his ego wall. In a silver frame is a copy of last year’s crime bill and one of four pens the President used to sign it. There’s a photo of Hartson and Simon fishing on a boat in Key West. And one of Simon advising Hartson in the Oval. There’s a personal note handwritten by Hartson, welcoming Simon back to the job. And there’s a great shot of the two men standing in the aisle on Air Force One: Simon’s laughing and the President’s holding up a bumper sticker that says: “My Lawyer Can Beat Up Your Lawyer.”

“Believe me, it’s for the best,” he says. “Take the rest of the day to relax.”

He’s a ruthless son of a bitch, I think to myself as I climb out of my seat. The prototypical White House attorney, he’s managed to say nothing, and yet still make his point perfectly clear. As of right now, the safest thing to do is stay quiet. It’s not something I’m happy with, but as I saw in Caroline’s office this morning, the alternative has its consequences. Heading toward the door, I do the only thing I can think of. I nod and go along with it. For now.

As soon as I get back to my apartment, I go straight for the only piece of furniture that I brought with me from Michigan: a makeshift desk that was created by resting an oversized piece of oak on top of two short black file cabinets. As beat up and ugly as it looks, is as comfortable as it makes me feel.

The rest of my furniture is rented along with the apartment. The black pullout sofa, the black Formica coffee table, the oversized leather easy chair, the small rectangular kitchen table, even the queen-size bed on the black-lacquered platform-none of it’s mine. But when the renting agent showed me the furnished apartment, it felt like home, with enough black furniture to keep any bachelor feeling manly. To make it complete, I added a TV and a tall black bookshelf. Certainly, using someone else’s stuff is a little impersonal, but when I first got to the city, I didn’t want to buy any furniture until I was sure I was going to be able to hack it. That was two years ago.

Like my office at work, the walls are what make the place mine. Over the couch are two red, white, and blue campaign posters with the worst slogans I could find. One is from a 1982 congressional race in Maine and says: “Charles Rust-Rhymes With Trust.” The other is from a 1996 race in Oregon that brings lack of creativity to a new low: “Buddy Eldon-American. Patriot. American.”

Pulling up my chair to the desk, I flip up the lid of my laptop and prepare to get some work done. When my mom left, when my dad got sent away, it was always my first instinct: Bury it all in work. But for the first time in a long while, it’s not making me feel any better.

I spend twenty minutes on Lexis before I realize that my census research is going nowhere. Regardless of how hard I try to concentrate, my mind keeps drifting back to the past few hours. To Caroline. And Simon. And Nora. I’m tempted to call her again, but I quickly decide against it. Internal calls made in the White House can’t be documented. Ones that originate from my home can. This is no time to take chances.

Instead, I pull out my wallet, remove my SecurID, and call the office. The size of a credit card, the SecurID resembles a tiny calculator without the numbered buttons. Utilizing a continuous-loop encryption program and a small liquid crystal display, SecurID gives you a six-digit code that changes every sixty seconds. It’s the only way to check your voice-mail from an outside line, and by constantly changing its numerical code, it ensures that no one can guess your password and listen to your messages.

Entering the SecurID code at the voice-prompt, I find out I have three messages. One from Pam, asking where I am. One from Trey, asking how I’m doing. And one forwarded from Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb’s assistant, announcing that the afternoon meeting with the Commerce Secretary is canceled. Nothing from Nora. I don’t like being abandoned like that.

I was eight years old the first time my mother left for her clinical trials. She was gone for three days, and my dad and I had no idea where she went. Since she was a nurse, it was easy to check the hospital, but they didn’t know where she was either. Or at least they weren’t saying. The leftovers lasted for two days, but we eventually reached the point where we needed some food. Because of my mom’s job, we weren’t poor, but my dad was in no shape to go shopping. When I volunteered to go for us, he stuffed a fistful of bills in my hand and told me to buy whatever I wanted. Beaming with the pride of newfound wealth, I marched down to the supermarket and stocked up the cart. Skippy instead of the generic peanut butter; Coca-Cola instead of the drab store brand; for once, we were going to live in style. It took me close to two hours to make my selections, filling the cart almost to the top.

One by one, the cashier rang up each item while I flipped through a TV Guide. I was Dad; all I was missing was the pipe and the smoking jacket. But when I went to pay-when I pulled the wad of crumpled-up cash from my pocket-I was told that three dollars wasn’t going to cover it. After a scolding by an assistant manager, they told me to put every item back where I found it. I did. Every item but one. I kept the peanut butter. We had to start somewhere.

Two hours later, I’m sitting in front of the TV, mentally walking through every reason that Simon would want Caroline dead. To be honest, it’s not that difficult. In her position, Caroline knew the dirt on everyone-that’s how she found out about my dad-so the most obvious answer is that she found something on Simon. Maybe it was something he wanted kept quiet. Maybe that’s why he was dropping the money. Maybe he was being blackmailed by her. That’d certainly explain how it wound up in Caroline’s safe. I mean, why else would it be there? If that’s the case, though, it should be pretty obvious that Caroline didn’t die of a simple heart attack. The problem is, if it looks like foul play, my life is over.

Panicking, I pick up the phone and start dialing. I need to know what’s going on, but neither Trey nor Pam is there. There are others I can call, but I’m not going to risk looking suspicious. If they find out Simon sent me home, there’ll be a new rumor buzzing through the halls. I hang up the phone and stare at the TV. It’s been three hours since I left the office, and I’m already locked out.

Flipping through every news program I can find, I’m searching for what is arguably the most important reaction to the crisis: the official White House press conference. I look down at my watch, and notice it’s almost five-thirty. It’s got to happen soon. The press office is focused around the six o’clock news cycle, and they’re too smart to let the evening news run with this on their own.

True to form, the announcement comes at exactly five-thirty. I hold my breath as Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb does a quick rundown of the facts: Early this morning, Caroline Penzler was found dead in her office of a heart attack caused by coronary artery disease. As she says the words, I once again start breathing. Keeping the explanation short and sweet, Goldfarb turns it over to Dr. Leon Welp, a heart specialist from Georgetown Medical Center, who explains that Caroline had a hysterectomy a few years ago, which made her prematurely experience menopause. Combine the drop in estrogen with heavy smoking, and you’ve got a quick recipe for a heart attack.

Before anyone can ask a question, the President himself comes out to do the regrets. Its a masterstroke by the Press Office. Forget the hows and whys, let’s get to the emotion. I can practically taste the subtext: Our leader. A man who takes care of his own.

I hate election years.

As the President grasps the podium in two tight fists, I can’t help but see the resemblance to Nora. The black hair. The piercing eyes. The reckless jaw. Always in control. Before he opens his mouth, we all know what’s going to come out: “It’s a dark day; she’ll be sorely missed; our prayers go out to her family.” Nothing suspicious; nothing to worry about. He tops it all off with a quick brush of his eye-he’s not crying, but it’s just enough to make us think that if he had a moment to himself, he might.

From Goldfarb, to the doctor, to the President, they all do their specialty. All I notice is that there’s no mention of an investigation. Of course, the family has requested an autopsy, but Goldfarb spins it as a hope to help others with similar ailments. Brilliant touch. Just to be safe, though, the autopsy’s set for Sunday, which means it won’t be the topic of the weekend talk shows, and if the results show it’s a murder, it’ll be too late for the major magazines to make it a cover story. For at least two days, I’m safe. I try to tell myself that it may be over-that it’ll all go away-but like Nora said, I’m a terrible liar.

Dinnertime comes and goes, and I still don’t move from the couch. My stomach is screaming, but I can’t stop flipping through channels. I have to be sure. I need to know no one is using those words: Suspicion. Foul Play. Murder.

The thing is, there’s no mention of it anywhere. Whatever Adenauer and the FBI have found, they’re keeping it to themselves. Relieved, I lean my head back on my rent-a-couch and finally accept that it’s going to be a quiet night.

There’s a loud knock on my door.

“Who is it?” I ask.

There’s no answer. They just bang harder.

“Who is it?” I repeat, raising my voice.

Nothing.

I move quickly from the couch and head toward the door. Along the way, I pick up an umbrella that’s hanging on the knob of the coat closet. It’s a pathetically bad weapon, but it’s the best I’ve got. Slowly, I bring my eye to the peephole and get a look at my imagined enemy. Pam.

Undoing the locks, I pull open the door. She’s holding her briefcase in one hand and a blue plastic shopping bag in the other. Her eyes go right to the umbrella. “Nervous much?”

“I didn’t know who it was.”

“So that’s what you grab? You’ve got a kitchen full of steak knives and you grab an umbrella? What’re you going to do? Keep-me-dry to death?” She shoots me a warm smile and holds up the blue bag. “Now, c’mon, how about inviting me in? I brought Thai food.”

I move out of her way and she steps inside. “And you call me the Boy Scout?” I ask.

“Just hold this,” she adds, handing me her briefcase and heading for the kitchen. Before I can react, she’s rummaging through cabinets and drawers, collecting plates and silverware. When she has what she needs, she moves to the small dining area outside the kitchen and unloads three cartons of Thai food from the blue bag. Dinner is served.

Confused, I’m still standing by the door. “Pam, can I ask you a question?”

“As long as you make it quick. I’m starving.”

“What’re you doing here?”

She looks up from the Pad Thai and her expression changes. “Here?” she asks. Her voice is hurt, almost pained. “I was worried about you.”

Her answer catches me off guard. It’s almost too honest. I take a step toward the dining room table and return her smile. She really is a good friend. And we can both use the company. “I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“You should’ve called me earlier.”

“I tried all afternoon, but you weren’t there.”

“That’s because the FBI was questioning me for two hours. We do share an office, y’know.”

Right there, I lose my appetite. “What’d you say to them?”

“I answered their questions. They asked me what Caroline was working on, and I told them everything I knew.”

“Did you tell them about me and Nora?”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she says with a grin. “I don’t know anything, Mr. Agent. I just remember him leaving the office.”

As I said, she’s a good friend. “Did they ask you a lot of questions about me?”

“They’re suspicious, but I don’t think they have a clue. They just told me to take the rest of the night off. Now do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”

I’m tempted, but decide against it.

“I know you’re in trouble, Michael. I can see it in your face.”

I keep my eyes focused on the Pad Thai. There’s no reason to get her involved.

“No matter what you’re thinking, you can’t do this one alone. I mean, Nora’s already hung you out to dry, hasn’t she? Nothing’s going to change that. The only question now is whether you’re going to be too stubborn to ask for help.” She reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’d never betray your loyalty, Michael. If I wanted to see you drown, I would’ve done it already.”

“Done what?”

“Told them what I think.”

“Which is?”

“I think you and Nora ran into something you weren’t supposed to. And whatever it was, it’s got you thinking there’s more to Caroline’s heart attack than what they put in the press release.”

I don’t respond.

“You think someone killed her, don’t you?”

All I can do is stay with the Pad Thai.

“We can get out of this, Michael,” she promises. “Just tell me who it was. What’d you see? You don’t have to keep it all to yoursel-”

“Simon,” I whisper.

“What?”

“It’s Simon,” I repeat. “I know it sounds nuts, but that’s who we saw last night.” Once the gates open, it doesn’t take long for me to tell her the whole story. Losing the Secret Service. Finding the bar. Trailing Simon. Getting caught with the money. By the time I’m done, I have to admit I feel the weight lift. There’s nothing worse than being alone.

Slowly wiping her mouth with a napkin, Pam’s still processing the information. “You think he murdered her?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’ve barely had a second to catch my breath.”

She shakes her head at me. “You’re in trouble, Michael. This is Simon we’re talking about.” She says something else, but I don’t hear it. All I notice is that ‘we’ has once again become ‘me.’

My fork slips from my hand and crashes against my plate. Jolted by the noise, I’m back where I started. “So you’re not going to help?”

“N-no, of course not,” she stutters, looking down. “I’ll definitely help.”

Biting the inside of my lip, all I want to do is accept the offer. But the more I watch her pick at her food… I’m not getting her into this-especially when I’m still struggling with how to get out. “I appreciate the ear, but-”

“It’s okay, Michael, I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you-”

“I do,” she interrupts, growing more confident. “I didn’t come here to let you fly alone.” Pausing a moment, she adds, “We’ll get you out of this.”

On my face, I show her a smile, but deep down, I’m praying she’s right. “I was thinking of pulling Simon’s and Caroline’s FBI files. Maybe that’ll tell us why he-”

“Forget about their files,” she says. “I think we should go straight to the FBI and-”

“No!” I blurt, catching us both by surprise. “I’m sorry… I just… I’ve already seen the results of that one. I open my mouth and Simon opens his.”

“But if you tell them-”

“Who do you think they’re going to believe-the Counsel to the President or the young associate who got nabbed with ten grand in his glove compartment? Besides, the moment I start singing, I wreck my life. The vultures and their news vans’ll be sniffing through every piece of dirty laundry they can find.”

“You’re worried about your dad?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

She doesn’t answer. Clearing her plate from the table, she replies, “I still don’t think you can just sit on this and hope it goes away.”

“I’m not sitting on it-I just… you should’ve heard Simon today. Quiet’s going to be what keeps me around… ” I pause as it once again knocks the wind out of me. “That’s all I have, Pam. Stay quiet and start searching. Anything else is just throwing myself to the wolves.” Letting the logic make the point, I add, “Also, let’s not forget the backdrop here: A scandal like this is a wrecking ball for the reelection. I guarantee that’s why the FBI is keeping things so hush-hush.”

Her silence lets me know I’m right. I pick up my own plate and follow her to the kitchen. Pam’s pouring half of her food into the garbage disposal. Another lost appetite.

Without turning around, Pam asks, “What about Nora?”

I take a nervous sip of water. “What about her?”

“What’s she going to do to help you? I mean, if she wasn’t such a freakshow, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“It’s not all her fault. Her life isn’t as easy as you think.”

“Not as easy?” Pam asks, facing me. She gives me a long, steady look, then quickly rolls her eyes. “Oh, no,” she groans. “You’re going to try and save her now, aren’t you…?”

“It’s not that I want to save her… ”

“You just have to, right? That’s the way it always is.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I know why you do it, Michael; I even admire why you do it… but just because you couldn’t help your dad… ”

“This has nothing to do with my dad!”

She lets the outburst go, knowing it’ll calm me down. In the silence, I take a breath. Sure, I grew up being protective of my father, but that doesn’t mean I’m protective of everyone. And with Nora, it’s… it’s different.

“It’s a wonderful instinct, Michael, but this isn’t like what you did with Trey. Nora’s not going to be as easy to cover up.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You don’t have to play dumb-Trey told me how the two of you met: about how he came into your office looking for help.”

“He didn’t need help; he just wanted some advice.”

“C’mon, now-he was caught painting devil beards and monocles on Dellinger’s campaign posters, then got arrested for destruction of property. He was terrified to bring it to his boss… ”

“He wasn’t arrested,” I clarify. “All it was was a citation. The whole thing was just harmless fun, and more important, it was on his own time-it wasn’t like he was acting for the campaign.”

“Still, when he came in, you barely knew him; he was just a face from around headquarters… which means you certainly didn’t have to call in any favors from your law school buddies at the DA’s Office.”

“I didn’t do anything illegal… ”

“I’m not saying you did, but you didn’t have to run to his rescue either.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t understand. “Pam, don’t make more of it than it is. Trey needed help, and he found me.”

“No,” she blurts, her voice rising. “He found you because he needed help.” Watching me carefully, she adds, “For better or worse, we all have our reputations here.”

“So what does that have to do with Nora?”

“Just what I said: helping Trey, and your dad, and your friends, and everyone else who needs a rescue, doesn’t mean you can pull it off with Nora. Not to mention the fact that if you’re not careful, she’ll let you take the fall alone.”

I think back to last night and the way Nora’s voice cracked as she apologized. The way she said it… her chin quivering… she’d never let me fall alone. “If she’s staying quiet now, it’s gotta be for a reason.”

“For a reason?” Pam asks. I can read it in the creases of her forehead. She thinks I’m starstruck. “Now you’re being plain stupid.”

“I’m sorry-that’s how I see it.”

“Well, regardless of how blind you want to be, you still need her help. She’s the only one who can corroborate your story about Simon.”

I nod, trying not to dwell on why she wouldn’t see me today. “When everything calms down, I bet she comes through.”

“Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”

“Because you don’t like her.”

“I could care less about her-I’m just worried about you.”

“Don’t worry, she’s not going to let us down.”

“I hope you’re right,” Pam says. “Because if she does, you’re going to be free-falling without a parachute. And before you can blink, you’re going to taste every second of that impact.”

For financial reasons, Saturday morning means only two of my four newspapers are sitting outside my door. Even as a lawyer, government salaries only go so far. Regardless, the ritual’s pretty much the same. Pulling the papers inside, I stare down at Bartlett’s second consecutive day in the front photo-a beaming shot of him and his wife at their son’s soccer game. Flipping the paper over, I scour the Post’s below-the-fold, front-page story on Caroline’s death and search for my name. It’s not there. Not yet.

Instead, I get a recap of her death, followed by a quick sketch of what a good friend Caroline was to the First Lady. According to the quote under the old photo of the two friends, the relationship changed Caroline’s life. Looking at the picture, I can see why. Caroline’s the law student, all wide-eyed and passionate in her cheap blouse and wrinkled skirt; Mrs. Hartson is her supervisor-the sparkling director of Parkinson’s fund-raising in her white Miami power suit. A friendship ended by a heart attack. Please let it just be a heart attack.

On the Saturday morning drive downtown, as I approach the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue is packed with joggers and bicyclists trying to leave the work week behind. Behind them, the sun is gleaming off the mansion’s ivory columns. It’s the kind of sight that makes you want to spend the whole day outside. That is, unless you can’t get your mind off work.

I pull up to the first checkpoint before the Southwest Appointment Gate and flash my ID to a uniformed Secret Service officer. He glances at my photo and offers me a subtle smirk. In his right hand, he’s holding what looks like a pool cue with a round unbreakable mirror attached to the end of it. Without a word, he runs the mirror below the car. No bombs, no surprise guests. Knowing the rest of the ritual, I pop my rear hatch. The first officer rummages through the back of my Jeep, as I notice a second officer standing on the side with a way-too-alert German shepherd. When my car’s finally parked, they’ll send the dog sniffing on an hourly basis. Right now, they wave me in.

I find an open spot on State Place, right outside the steel bars of the gate. At my level, that’s the best parking I can get. Outside the gate. Still, at least I have a parking pass.

Traveling the rest of the way on foot, I cross inside the gate, swipe my badge at the turnstile, and wait for the lock to click. I walk past two more guards, neither of whom gives me a second look. As I glance over my shoulder, however, I notice the officer with the mirror on the other side of the gate. Through the bars, he’s staring straight at me. Smirk still on his face.

Picking up speed, I head up the sidewalk, with the OEOB on my left and the West Wing on my right. The corridor between the two is lined with Mercedes, Jaguars, Saabs, and just enough beat-up Saturns to stave off elitist guilt. The most prestigious parking lot in the city. All of it inside the gate. An island unto itself, West Exec parking is also where the hierarchy of White House command is laid out for the world to see: the closer your spot to the entrance of the West Wing, the higher your rank. Chief of Staff is closer than the Deputy Chief of Staff, who’s closer than the Domestic Policy Advisor, who’s closer than me. And even though I don’t usually drive to work, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be inside the gate.

Getting closer to the front, I can’t help myself. I pretend to hear someone calling my name and again look over my shoulder. The guard’s still there. Our eyes lock and he whispers something into his walkie-talkie. What the hell is… Forget it. He’s just trying to scare me. Who could he be speaking to anyway?

I turn back to the parking lot and see a black Volvo in Spot Twenty-six. Simon’s somewhere in the building. At the end of the row, there’s an old gray Honda in Spot Ninety-four. It belongs to Trey, whose boss lets him use her spot on weekends. Midway between the two, I notice there’s a brand-new red car parked in Spot Forty-one. Caroline’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, and someone’s already taken her parking space.

As I approach the side entrance of the OEOB, I take one last glance at the guard outside the gate. For the first time since I arrived, he’s gone-back to sliding his mirror under the belly of arriving cars. Still, it’s just like the night on the embankment-not only is my neck soaked-I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

Without even thinking, I look up at the dozens of gray windows on this end of the enormous building. Every one of them appears to be empty, but they’re all somehow staring down at me like square magnifying lenses. My eyes flick across the panes of glass, searching for a friendly face. No one’s there.

Inside the building, it doesn’t take me long to reach the anteroom that leads to my office. Opening the door, though, I’m surprised to see that the lights are already on. I didn’t see Julian’s car on State Place, and Pam told me she was going to be working from home. The office should be dark. Putting the blame on a careless cleaning crew, I snake my arm behind the tallest of our file cabinets to flip off the silent alarm. But as I braille my way along the plaster, I don’t like what I find. The alarm’s already been turned off.

“Pam?” I call out. “Julian? Are you there?” No one answers.

Under Pam’s door, I notice that the light is on. “Pam, are you there?” Just as I turn toward her office, I notice that the three stackable plastic file-trays that serve as our mailboxes are all full. Next to the table, the coffeemaker is off. I’m about to open her door when I freeze. I know my friend. Whoever’s in there, it’s not Pam.

I rush toward my office, push the door open, and dart inside. Spinning around, I grab the deadbolt and lock it. That’s when it hits me. I shouldn’t have been able to open my door. It’s supposed to be locked.

Behind me, something moves by the sofa. Then by my desk. A creak of vinyl. A pencil rolling down a keyboard. They’re not in Pam’s office. They’re in mine.

I turn around, struggling to catch my breath. It’s too late. There are two men waiting for me. Both of them head my way. I turn back to the door, but it’s locked. My hands are shaking as I lunge for the deadbolt.

A fist comes down and pounds me in the knuckles. My hands still don’t leave the deadbolt. Clutching. Clawing. Anything to get out.

Over my shoulder, a fat, meaty hand covers my mouth. I try to scream, but his grip’s too tight. The tips of his fingers dig into my jaw, his nails scratching my cheek.

“Don’t fight it,” he warns. “This’ll only take a second.”